Tom & Dinosaur Hand

first a quick shout out to Jeff, over at Whatever the Hell he's calling His Blog this week, as he has posted the new Touche' Cliche'...I'll have it up over here at some point, when I can fit it in...

Dinner...and a movie! A Theme Thursday post: Dinosaur Hand: Aha! Something I can really sink my teeth into!
Tom: I'm glad you're excited. Here's the thing, though - we just aren't sophisticated connoisseurs of fine cuisine, you know.
D.H: Speak for yourself, mush-up frog face. I love stuff like rat-a-tatty and horror devourers.
Tom: You mean ratatouille and, oh never mind. Obviously you are more the beans and franks sort.
D.H: ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Tom: Alright; what I was thinking was, we rate our favorite meals, you know, the stuff we cook ourselves, for our family.
D.H: And we grub it down while watching a movie? Excellent!
Tom: Too right; Burn After Reading. One of those great Coen Brother movies.
D.H: Hoo! Remember Fargo? What did we eat with that? Spaghetti?
Tom: What? Who knows. This movie had a great cast, including John Malkovich, Francis McDormand and George Clooney.
D.H: Don't forget Brad Pitt. (snort) He was a riot! What a dope.
Tom: Yeah – I liked this one a lot. It had a couple crude parts, but mostly it was goofy and a rib tickler.
D.H: Ribs?! Are we having ribs with this? Sweet, gooey, finger smacking ribs?
Tom: No, no...but we're cooking, Dinosaur Hand...ready?
D.H: I really like the spatula. Stir the pot, stir the pot. And frosting. And the licking of the batter.
Tom: Right. Now we're getting somewhere. One of my favorite dishes is pork chops over sliced potatoes.
D.H: Fancy.
Tom: Ha. Not really. Remember how we make it?
D.H: O.K. I'll play your game. First, set the oven to 325, then slice up a mess o' spuds.
Tom: Yep – it depends on how many you're cooking for. I figure at least one good size potato per person, but I really like the taters, so I slice more.
Layer the bottom of a 9X13 casserole pan with potatoes and top that with pork chops and sliced onions.
D.H: Onions shmonions. Why is it always onions with you. Are you in love with onions?
Tom: Maybe, a little. Put either water or a half can of broth over the whole bunch, some butter and salt...
D.H: ...then cover with foil and stick in the oven for one point five hours.
Tom: It's so easy that even me and Dino Hand can do it. Almost as easy as boiling water!
D.H: how does that work?
Tom: Okay then, easy as making toast.
D.H: That lever thing always gets me...
Tom: Um, easy as buttering bread?
D.H: ack, who has time for that?!
Tom: Last chance – easy as pie!
D.H: Ta – daaaaaaaa. Winner winner, chicken dinner!

Touche' Cliche'

#2 of the infamous (not so much)

Touche' Cliche' series,

the subnormal brainchild of Jeff, drawing by Tom (me).

click on to Engorge !!!

the comic above is--for now-- the final version, but as you can see below,

a little more went between the initial sketch and the done deal.

please pass the peace be with you

I lie in response to a hiccup
and dally forthwith in advance
to proclaim:
Due to budget cuts
we've outsourced your birthday wishes
to the snailfairy
an external mythical being
out of the Polliwog Septum System,
where our galactic froth is merely
the mitochondrial remains of tensile giants.

Meantime, he who knows
will grant a lenience
for curses unclaimed and bonus points
to any ambushed in style.

The zinc syncopation
of lackadaisical neerdowells
and robot lights with tweezer aversions
now churn out frills & fleur de lis
punched up by pithy quips like
Happy Tuesday! and I swear, you glue me

Relax, take your shoes off, stay awhile....

my Toby, sawing logs...

it's a dog's life....

...and a cat's, too !!!

literally

i couldn't help myself--here's a quirky bit shot over to the 10th Daughter of Memory...please ignore it.


a-hah, take that my squirrel. And they all know my might; see my prowess in battle and how easily the enemy falls beneath my omnipotent fist of lordly power. Now my captains take me up upon their horses, and we gallop thusly. Here and there, back and forth we go on the steeds of glory. Oh, how the maidens do preen. See them my fine lads, how they eye their lord protector? Yes, yes, there are plenty for all--we shall have our fill.

Watch me now, from across the room, dressed in my finery for the ball, and I enter thrusting forth preceded by my great codpiece, tee hee. Listen to them titter. We will dance tonight; twirl and dip. Oh my, fair lady, how tall you are, I am enfolding you in my strong arms. I feel the crease of your waist, the curse of your wicked hip. Is it a sweetness that you peer at me from your golden crown, or the devil in you?

Together we float across the floor, over every obstacle we fly, together as one. We are a single entity in our grace of movement, you and I. Come with me, my love, and rendezvous!

And so we do, in this secluded wood. We meet and fall together; I take you in my arms and lean with you against this hardy oak. Oh yes, oh yes! We love, my love, as I kiss your tender face and we love so strongly that our thighs bleed with the intercourse!

"Henry! Pull your pants up!”

From over the fence, “Oh my, there's Imogene's witless son shagging the larch again.”
Sylvia puts on spectacles while sipping at her tiny teacup. “Good heavens. But he does have a spectacular fanny, doesn't he?”

com'n..not more dog v cat !!?

material goods

Medusa had stone beauty like a covered Flexon pan simmering gravy on the burner--
cracking eggs she whistled shrilly to curl bacon where it lay.
Today I will find a man she said to no one in particular.
Her potted plant though watered was a cactus and so drowned.
Intrepid Phil as he was known to no one in particular though he fancied himself as such
and so partied in the flat with Chewy his succulent and a cast of thousands,
ventured into the city on that fateful night and found her wearing a hat
like a paper sack upon another and to what purpose he wondered but little—not enough.
She was buying Flexon for her collection, and looking for a man; he was on a quest for life.
What's your sign, she asked. He said 'Faster” and what's yours? “I'm Medusa” I like you.
She bought a skillet and Phil bought lavender tea for brewing--
it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Her eyes were large and green as a banana, changing to yellow as they ripened;
the effect was stunning in a candle lit room, the scent of lavender wafting in the slow current
of Phil's apartment spinning the room in slow motion like a rooftop terrace on a lazy Susan.
She laid a proletarian ashtray upon her prostrate figure and Phil lit her cigarette
then stood with the Flexon and a box of nails to pound holes into his plaster walls.
For a while she stripped until her porcelain body resembled Venus in the corner with arms,
a smoldering butt nonchalant in repose igniting slightly an unfazed succulent.
Let this moment last forever, Phil said, as he hung his sock upon the final nail
and Medusa dropped her drapery onto a plinth inscribed as such:
apple thy eye doth fade in the lite of yonder meals, forsooth, bite me.
And as she doffed her headdress he wondered no more absorbing all her density
in a beauty bouquet of unmeasurable magnitude deep inside of his cellular being
and froze forever his eyes remembering always their final feast.
“Oh, he dinged my new Flexon.” Lifetime warranty, better than a man.